


The Need For Speed

by Mums_the_Word



Series: Did I Ever Tell You? [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Racecar Driver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7713172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did I Ever Tell You” is a series of small fictions inspired by the book and movie “Catch Me If You Can.” Each one in this series is a current White Collar, stand alone story, and, in each one, Neal will relate to Peter a con artist role that he had played in the years long before they ever started their chase. Please don’t take them too seriously. Just look at the tags for insights into the persona, and hopefully you will enjoy the read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Need For Speed

**Author's Note:**

> A great big thanks to Treon for obtaining and formatting the screen caps that will precede each story. She is the best!

 

     Peter piloted the luxurious Bentley Flying Spur up the seemingly never-ending driveway to the mansion on Montauk, located at the very end of the Long Island peninsula.

     “I don’t know why we have to have such an expensive ride,” Peter grumbled. “I don’t see how I can justify this on the FBI’s expense account.”

     Beside him, Neal sighed gustily. “Peter, did you even take notice of every other car parked along this driveway? There is not one that cost less than $75,000. We have to look the part when we attend this little shindig.”

     The little “shindig” to which Neal was referring was a very upscale, “by invitation only” soiree being hosted by ultra-rich Nicholas Pendleton. His vacation home outside of Manhattan was a massive three-story replica of a French chateau from the Loire Valley. There were ostentatiously ornamented spires and dormers, and a long, expansive Mansard roof set in front of a seaside backdrop. This little “cottage” was just as impressive as any that the by-gone Vanderbilt or Astor scions had erected in Newport, Rhode Island at the turn of the 20th century during the Gilded Age.

     Peter really didn’t want to know how Neal had wangled the invite to get in here. He quickly shut his CI down when he tried to tell Peter about a charming Castilian baroness from back in the day. At this point, ignorance really was blissful—at least for a while, Peter reasoned. The important thing was that they were going to observe Pendleton on his own turf, hobnobbing with his cronies. The FBI was very interested in just who those pals were, as was the ATF. Both agencies were part of a joint operation to ferret out how illegal, military-grade weapons from overseas were making landfall in the United States. Pendleton was suspected of being the catalyst who made it all possible. Tonight, a stud on Peter’s tuxedo shirt had been replaced with a miniature camera that took pictures when the miniscule shutter was activated by a tiny disc sewn into Peter’s pocket.

      As the Bentley glided to a stop beneath the expansive portico, a liveried young man rushed forward to open the doors. He took the keys from Peter and explained that the car would be parked along the drive, and could be quickly retrieved when the gentlemen were ready to depart. Peter and Neal then entered the baronial estate where they were treated to the profligate opulence of the excessively rich.

     Venetian chandeliers lit up the massive foyer, and a sweeping sweetheart staircase drew the visitor’s eye upward. Off to the side, an intricate parquet floor shone mirror-bright in an immense oval-shaped ballroom. A full orchestra was playing danceable show tunes at present, as guests in jewel-encrusted gowns and sleek tuxedoes sipped champagne and made small talk with other guests who looked just like them. There were a few exceptions, however. The occasional sheik in a traditional thobe and headdress, and wealthy sultans from Morocco and Ethiopia clad in colorful boubous were also in attendance.

     The two clandestine operatives stood off to the side.

     “I’ve never seen such decadence,” Peter mumbled to Neal out of the side of his mouth.

     “Obviously you have never visited Dubai,” Neal snarked.

     “I don’t want to know,” Peter retorted quickly.

     “Listen, Peter,” Neal began, “we need to mingle. Standing here like two cigar store Indians is not going to get us what we want. We need to seek ‘them’ out ‘cause they’re not going to come to us.”

     “Don’t stray too far,” Peter cautioned empty air because Neal had already moved off to speak to a glamorous lady with a plunging décolletage. Peter huffed out his exasperated “Caffrey-sigh,” and then satisfied himself with snagging a glass of bubbly and perusing the scene. It wasn’t ten minutes later that he was joined by his partner once again. There was another elegant woman clinging to his arm.

     “Peter, may I present the Marquessa Constancia Tavares from Portugal.”

     At Neal’s expectantly raised eyebrows, Peter belatedly sought the woman’s hand and brought it lightly to his lips.

     “Enchanted, Madame,” he finally muttered.

     The lady smiled and purred rather persuasively, “Peter, Neal has told me that you are an excellent dancer. Perhaps you would be gallant enough to escort me onto the dance floor.”

     Peter started to object, but Neal’s wide-eyed “just go with it” expression had him re-evaluating that action. Undoubtedly, his sidekick had a plan, but right now Peter was in the dark, and had to follow where Neal led him, no matter how embarrassing that might be. He diligently tried not to step on the woman’s sandaled toes as he attempted to keep the musical tempo in his head. He also tried to keep track of Neal. At first, the debonair con man was visible on the sidelines sipping from his champagne flute and munching on a chocolate-covered strawberry. On the next twirl around the dancefloor, he had vanished. As the last notes of the musical number ended, Peter thanked his dance partner and then hurried in search of his errant one.

      Eventually, Peter found Neal in a back stairwell off the kitchen. This was probably built so that staff could reach the floors above without using the main one.

     “What are you doing here, Neal?” Peter demanded to know.

     Neal was quick to enlighten him. “There are just too many guests here tonight to get a handle on who the actual players are. I’ll just bet there may be a real treasure trove in a desk or on a computer somewhere upstairs in a study or a master bedroom. Maybe even a guest list or an address book. I thought I’d take a peek to see if I can find anything that looks promising.”

     “No, just no!” Peter said emphatically. “The FBI doesn’t have a warrant that allows you to go snooping.”

     Neal smiled happily. “The FBI may need a warrant, but I don’t, Buddy. Wanna come with me and be my lookout?”

     The con man didn’t wait for an answer, and proceeded to slink up the steps to the second floor with a disgruntled Peter trailing behind. At the top, they found themselves at the end of a very long corridor with a multitude of doors and small alcoves.

     “Probably guest bedrooms and the occasional linen closet. The master suite is more than likely on the top floor,” Neal whispered as he glanced back at Peter. What he saw made him issue a caution. “Peter, if you don’t stop clenching your teeth, there’s a root canal or two in your future.”

     They were halfway down the long carpeted expanse when they heard someone coming up the back stairs behind them. Both men froze like deer in the headlights until, surprisingly, it was Peter who reacted. He quickly grabbed Neal by the shoulders, pushed him forcefully against the wall, and then leaned into him as he brought his lips down onto his startled CI’s. It wasn’t quite as bad as Peter imagined it might be. Neal’s lips were pliant and he tasted like chocolate.

     They stayed entwined like that until they heard a derisive snort and the eventual heavy footfalls returning to the stairs.

     “Well, aren’t you charming,” Neal crowed when he had gotten his breath back. “I never saw that coming, so I suppose that old axiom is true. Still waters really do run deep.”

     “Don’t flatter yourself, Neal. I did what I had to do to save our asses. And, just so you know, we will never speak of this _ever_ again because it _never_ happened,” Peter threatened ominously.

     Neal just smiled slyly, and then led Peter to the staircase access to the third floor. When they reached the top, they found that this level had only one set of double doors in the center. There were adjoining small niches on both sides with ornate ceramic vases on marble pedestals. It had to be the master suite. Neal set to work with a set of slender lock picks while Peter meandered around a corner to do reconnaissance.

     At some point, the door surrendered to Neal’s jiggling and twisting just as he sensed another presence hovering nearby. He looked up from his squatted position expecting to see Peter, but instead, he found himself facing a huge man dressed in a suit with a security logo on the jacket pocket. The dangerous fellow advanced slowly, and Neal suddenly felt like a bug about to be squashed. However, the con man decided that he was not about to go down quietly, so he quickly stood and assume a wide-legged stance. Then he slowly spread his arms out with his fingers splayed in the classic Tai Chi pose of “ _White Crane Spreads Its Wings_.” He followed that up by balancing on the balls of his feet, and raising one leg slowly with a bent knee to the more advanced position of “ _Golden Rooster on One Leg_.”

     The confused security guard’s forehead wrinkled in bewilderment for a second, but then a look of determination took hold. However, before he could get his hands on Neal and wreak mayhem, one of those ceramic vases came smashing down on his head causing him to collapse in a heap at Peter’s feet.

     Neal looked from the fallen guard to the shards on the floor. “Peter, I think you just shattered an authentic Ming vase,” he whispered sadly.

     “I’m sure that Pendleton has it insured, Neal,” Peter quipped as he shoved Neal into the master bedroom where there was, indeed, a small escritoire with a computer monitor in the center.

     “Do you think that you can take a hasty look around in that computer, Neal? We probably don’t have a lot of time. It’s a shame that we don’t have a flash drive to get a copy of the contents.”

     Neal just beamed his happy smile as he held up that very item. “I’m a Boy Scout, Peter. I always come prepared.”

     The light dawned in Peter’s mind. Neal had intended to do this very thing from the moment that he had obtained the invitation to Pendleton’s house. They definitely needed to have a little “Come to Jesus” talk when this was over. As they waited for the download to finish, Peter had to ask.

     “What was all that out in the hall, Neal—Kung Fu or something?”

     “Actually, Peter, it was some esoteric Tai Chi poses that I see senior citizens doing in the park every morning when I cool down after my run. It’s interesting to observe for a short while, but it’s really about as exciting as watching paint dry.”

     Just then, they heard a stampede of footsteps in the hall.

     “That’s our cue to exit the stage,” Neal explained as he grabbed the flash drive from the USB port and pocketed it. Peter and Neal then rushed to the French doors that led out onto a terrace. Using the ornate wrought-iron trellises, they both laboriously climbed up onto the roof.

     “Why is it always ‘up’ with you, Neal?” Peter grumbled.

     Both men scurried across the flat Mansard roof until they came to the very edge. “Down” was indeed a long way below since they were perched three stories above terra firma.

     “No worries, Peter,” Neal said confidently. “We can get a bit of a running start, jump into that tall spruce tree, and then lower ourselves to the ground.”

     Peter looked at Neal as if he had lost his mind. “We could also break our necks, you idiot!”

     “Watch and learn, ye of little faith,” Neal said as he backed up and then started to run.

     He sailed off the edge into the void until he caught an outstretched evergreen limb that swayed and dipped under his weight. Like a pendulum, the athletic young man swung back and forth as the branch went lower and lower. Near the first story of the residence, he let go and dropped to his feet and followed that up with a graceful somersault on the ground. He looked up at Peter and gave a thumbs up, then a hurry up gesture.

     “God, but I hate heights,” Peter said under his breath as he took the leap.

     Unfortunately, Peter failed to grasp a spruce branch tightly enough, and he found himself painfully plummeting from limb to limb in a rapidly increasing downward trajectory. He hit the ground with a thud, and sat in dazed confusion for a few seconds. Neal was immediately at his side.

     “Peter, are you okay, Buddy? I’d let you take a do-over if we had the time, but that’s not an option right now. Pendleton’s little army is on the move and will be here soon. We’ve got to concentrate on getting away.”

     When Peter stood up, his right leg buckled. He presumed that he had badly sprained his ankle, and had to hobble along holding onto Neal’s shoulder. They hurried, or at least hurried as much as they could, across the back lawn to the driveway. Unfortunately, the Bentley was tightly wedged in between a car in the front and in the back.

     “We’ll have to settle for the last vehicle in the queue,” Neal decided.

     That turned out to be a black Lotus Evora GT4. The keys were left in the ignition to make it easier for the parking attendants to jockey the cars around when necessary.

     “The fates are smiling down on us, Peter, because we got ourselves a _really_ sweet ride,” Neal exclaimed, the smile ever so wide on his face. “An aero-optimized frame, a fuel-injected 3.5 V6 engine, and a six speed sequential manual transmission—this hot little mama has it all, and belongs on an oval track!”

     Peter suddenly found his large frame jammed into the rather small passenger seat as Neal powered up the sporty dynamo. He easily skewed it around so that they were now facing away from the mansion, and roared off leaving a lot of smoke and tire tread on the driveway. He sped onto the highway at breakneck speed, never taking his foot off the gas as grit and stones flew during the harrowing turn.

     “Jesus!!!” Peter proclaimed fearfully.

     “No need for Divine intervention, Peter,” Neal laughed. “I’ve got this.”

     The vehicle’s high-performance suspension kept the low-slung car glued to the highway as Neal sailed down Route 27. He blew through the nearby hamlets of Napeague and Sagaponack at over 100 mph. He had spotted approaching headlights in his rearview mirror and suspected that Pendleton’s posse was in persistent pursuit. Now it was time for a bit of evasive maneuvering.

     Eventually, the surrounding areas became somewhat congested with traffic as they neared the more densely populated town of Brentwood. That borough was adjacent to Interstate 95, and had become a thriving bedroom community for New York commuters. Neal continued to slew down the highway, downshifting around slow moving cars, and zigzagging across the median into the opposite lane. Drivers laid on their horns as their hearts suddenly jumped into their throats at the crazy specter before them. Peter’s gut clenched when Neal abruptly shifted gears and screeched onto a one-way street without warning, pin balling his way between oncoming vehicles.

     Peter had his arms continually braced for impact, but he did not close his eyes. He was determined to face his upcoming death with some degree of dignity instead of cowering like a frightened child. Actually, he thought that he may have forgotten to breathe, so he suspected that he just might pass out from hypoxia before the point of impact. He was certainly not prepared for Neal to suddenly turn on a dime and wedge the car into a narrow, dark alley between two storefronts. The space was so tight, they could not have exited through the doors if they had wanted to do so. Neal cut the engine, and Peter finally breathed deeply as he listened to the overheated engine tick in cool-down mode.

     When he found his voice again, Peter addressed the pilot of this flying machine in a dry, croaking whisper.

     “What was all that, Neal?”

     His CI looked at him calmly while his mouth quirked in that damn impish grin. “Did I ever tell you about the time that I drove in the Monaco Grand Prix, Peter?”

     Peter groaned and laid his head back on the seat.

     “You see, some years ago I found myself at loose ends in Monaco,” Neal began even though Peter had not responded. “I needed something to kill some time until I …… well, you really wouldn’t be interested in that part,” Neal quickly assured his FBI handler.

     “Anyway, the city was getting ready for the ‘Circuit de Monaco’ where all the Formula One racers drive through a grueling course laid out on the streets of Monte Carlo and La Condamine around the principality of Monaco and its harbor. There are elevations, tight corners and even a tunnel along the track, so it is very challenging even for the most experienced drivers. The race is 78 laps in duration, and usually only approximately 18 to 20 drivers qualify to compete. I had taken a temporary job as a pit crew member in a foreign racer’s entourage, and gotten to know his Ferrari inside and out.

     Now, here’s where the story gets interesting. Good old boy, Sergio, managed to indulge in a little over-the-top partying the night before the big race. He was so stoned and plastered the next day that he barely knew his own name. Well, Peter, this was the opportunity of a lifetime—the stuff that dreams are made of. So, I put the incapacitated man to bed in my hotel, and, without anyone’s knowledge, I took his place behind the wheel. Once you have that helmet and face guard in place, and the jumpsuit on your back, even your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.

     Well, let me just say that I upheld his honor, Peter. It was a wild, adrenalin-inducing two-hour ride, and after the dust had settled, I managed to snag fourth place with an impressive time of 1:59:44.979. To this day, I don’t believe that Sergio has ever figured out that he was never in the cockpit. He probably thought that he drove on autopilot during a liquor and drug-induced blackout.”

     Peter finally turned his head to look at his partner. “Neal,” he began drolly, “do _not_ ever criticize my driving again—not one single word! Do you hear me? And for the record, this little episode must never see the light of day!”

     Peter didn’t have any trouble making out Neal’s wide smirk in the dark. Of course, as expected, the con man felt compelled to fire the last salvo.

     “Gee, Peter, that’s two things tonight that you have termed sub-rosa. It’s almost as if we have our own little Machiavellian cabal going on. Maybe we should create a secret handshake or something.”

     The con man quickly dodged Peter’s swipe at his head, and all that was heard in the darkness was a menacing growl and a delighted laugh.


End file.
